Obsession

Once his plan was set, he went about finding his headstrong ex-wife.

* * *

Hours later, Zane had tracked her down. She hadn’t been at her apartment, nor had she gone back to the station, so he guessed she’d decided to spend the evening alone, at the house they’d shared in Carmel.

He parked in the familiar driveway and second-guessed himself. His plan was foolproof, but she would be furious. And she might end up hating him for the rest of her life.

But then, she didn’t much like him now. She’d made it all too clear that she didn’t want him in her life when she’d scribbled her signature across the divorce papers seven years before.

So why couldn’t he forget her? Leave her alone? Let her fend for herself as she claimed she wanted to do?

Because she was in his blood. Always had been. Always would be. His personal curse. And he was scared.

He let the dog out of the Jeep, and the shepherd began investigating the small yard, scaring a gray tabby cat and sniffing at the shrubs.

“Stay, Franklin,” Zane commanded when the dog attempted to wander too far.

Pressing on the doorbell, he waited, shifting from one foot to the other. The house was silent. No footsteps padded to the door. Leaning on the bell again, he heard the peal of chimes within. Still no response.

Don’t panic, he told himself, unnerved that he couldn’t find her. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a set of keys he hadn’t used in years and slid a key into the lock.

The lock clicked. The dead bolt slid easily.

So she hadn’t bothered to change the locks. Not smart, Kaylie.

With a grimace, Zane pocketed his key and shoved on the familiar front door. It swung open without the slightest resistance, and he stood staring at the interior of the house that had once been his.

Swearing under his breath, he ignored the haunting memories—memories of Kaylie. Always Kaylie. God, how could one woman be embedded so deeply in a man?

With another reminder to Franklin to stay, he closed the door behind him. Tossing his battle-worn leather jacket over the back of the couch, he surveyed the living room. Nothing much had changed. Except of course that he didn’t live here, and he hadn’t for a long, long time.

The same mauve carpet stretched through the house. The windows were spotless, the view of Carmel Bay as calming as he had always found it. And the furniture hadn’t been moved or added to. Familiar pieces covered in white and gray were grouped around glass-topped tables. Even the artwork, framed watercolors of dolphins, sailing ships and sea gulls, provided the same splashes of blue, magenta and yellow as they had when he and Kaylie had shared this seaside cottage.

But all of the memorabilia from their marriage—the pictures, tokens and mementos of their short life together—were gone. Well, most of them, he thought as he spied a single snapshot still sitting on the mantel.

The picture was of Kaylie and him, arms linked, standing ankle-deep in white, hot sand on their honeymoon in Mazatlán. He picked up the snapshot and scowled at the heady memories of hot sun, cold wine and Kaylie’s supple body yielding to his. The scent of the ocean and perfume mingled with the perfume of tropical flowers and a vision of a vast Mexican sky.

Dropping the photograph as if it suddenly seared his fingers, he snorted in disgust. No time to think about the past. It was over and done. Already, just being near Kaylie was making him crazy. Well, he’d better get used to it.

He crossed the room. Freshly cut flowers scented the air and reminded him of Kaylie. Always Kaylie. Despite the divorce and the past seven painful years alone, he’d never truly forgotten her, never been able to go to bed at night without feeling a hot pang of regret that she wasn’t beside him, that he wasn’t in her life any longer.

Shoving the sleeves of his pullover up his forearms, he walked to the recessed bar near a broad bank of windows. He leaned on one knee, dug through the cabinet and smiled faintly when he found his favorite brand of Scotch, the bottle dusty from neglect, the seal still unbroken. With a flick of his wrist he opened the bottle, just as, by confronting her, he was reopening all the old hurt and pain, the anger and fury, and the passion…. As damning as it was exciting. Closing his eyes, he reined in his runaway emotions—emotions over which he usually had tight control. Except where Kaylie was concerned.

“Fool.” Straightening, he poured himself a stiff shot. “Here’s to old times,” he muttered, then tossed back most of the drink, the warm, aged liquor hitting the back of his throat in a fiery splash.

Home at last, he thought ironically, topping off his glass again as he sauntered to the French doors.

Through the paned glass, he stared down the cliff to the beach below. Relief, in a wave, washed over him. There she was—safe! With no madman stalking her. She walked from the surf, wringing saltwater from her long, sun-streaked hair as if she hadn’t a care in the world. If she only knew.

Wearing only a white one-piece swimming suit that molded to her body, sculpting her breasts and exposing the tanned length of her slim legs, she tossed her thick, curly mane over her shoulders.

His gut tightened as he watched her bend over and scoop up a towel from the white sand. The next couple of weeks were going to be hell.

* * *

Kaylie shook the sand from her towel, then looped the terry cloth around her neck. The last few rays of sun dried the water on her back and warmed her shoulders as she slipped into her thongs and cast one last longing glance at the sea. Sailboats skimmed the horizon, dark silhouettes against a blaze of magenta and gold. Gulls wheeled high overhead, filling the air with their lonely cries.

The beach was nearly deserted as she climbed up the weathered staircase to the house. Leaving her thongs on the deck, she pushed open the back door, then tossed her towel into the hamper in the laundry room. Maybe she’d pour herself a glass of wine. Pulling down the strap of her bathing suit, she headed for the bedroom. First a long, hot shower and then—

“How’re you, Kaylie?” a familiar voice drawled.

Kaylie gasped, stopping dead in her tracks. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she spun around quickly, drops from her hair spraying against the wall. Zane? Here? Now? Why?

Draped over the couch, long jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him, he looked as damnably masculine as he ever had. His ankles were crossed, his expression bland, except for the lifting of one dark brow. However, she knew him too well and expected his pose of studied relaxation was all for show.

His steely gray gaze touched hers, and his lips quirked. For a few seconds she remembered how much she had loved him, how much she had wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. With an effort, she closed her mind to such traitorous thoughts. Her throat worked, and slowly she became conscious that one strap of her swimsuit dangled over her forearm, leaving the swell of her breast exposed.

“W-what the devil are you doing here—trying to scare me to death?” she finally sputtered, adjusting the strap back over her shoulder. But before he could respond, she changed her mind and shook her head. She wasn’t up to talking to Zane—not now, probably not ever. “No, wait, don’t answer that, I don’t think I want to know.”

He didn’t budge, damn him, just lounged there, on her couch, drinking her Scotch, stretched out and making himself comfortable. His nerve was unbelievable, and yet there was something about him, something restless and dangerous that still touched a forbidden part of her heart. And she knew he wouldn’t have shown up without a reason.

His scuffed running shoes dropped to the floor. “You didn’t call me back.”

She felt a jab of guilt. She’d gotten his messages, but hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to him. “And that’s why you’re here?”

“I was worried about you.”

“Oh, please, don’t start with this,” she said, reminded of the reasons she’d divorced him, his all-consuming need to protect her. “You don’t have to worry about me or even be concerned that—”

“Lee Johnston’s going to be released.”

The words were like frigid water poured over her, stopping her cold. Zane’s feigned casualness disappeared.

“He’s what?” she whispered. In her mind’s eye, she pictured Lee Johnston, a short, burly man with flaming red hair and lifeless blue eyes. And she remembered the knife—oh, God, the long-bladed knife that he’d pressed to her throat.

“Y-you’re sure about this?” Oh, Lord, how could she keep her voice from quavering? The look on his face convinced her that he believed she was in grave danger, and yet she didn’t want to believe it. Not entirely. There were too many dimensions to Zane to take anything he said at face value. Although she’d never known him to lie.

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Someone called me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Someone who called himself ‘Ted.’”

“Ted? Ted who?” she asked.

“I wish I knew. I thought maybe you could help me figure it out,” he admitted, launching into his short tale and starting with the first nerve-jangling call from “Ted,” and ending with his gut feeling that Dr. Henshaw was holding out on him. “Do you have a recorder—a tape player?”

She nodded mutely, then retrieved the portable player from her bedroom. Zane picked up his jacket and took out a small tape, which he snapped into the machine. A few seconds later, “Ted’s” warning echoed through the room.